Set in Motion
by neurquadic
Summary: 07Movie. When Sam is badly injured and standing on death's doorstep, the Autobots must make a decision that will change Sam Witwicky forever. But the war's not over yet and what about the Decepticons and their sudden interest in the newest Autobot? BeeSam
1. Chapter I

**Full Summary**: '07Movie. When Sam is badly injured and standing on death's doorstep, the Autobots must make a decision that will change Sam Witwicky forever. But the war's not over yet, others have made landfall, and what about the Decepticons and their sudden interest in the newest Autobot? (BeeSam, others)

**Disclaimer**: What? Who's Michael Bay? Steven Spielberg? Hasbro? Never heard of 'em! -sounds of guns being cocked- _Oh_, you mean _that _Michael Bay, Steven Spielberg, and Hasbro! Oh, yeah… _they _own Transformers, not me…

_Author's Nonsense:_  
This thing was written on a spur of the moment. I've been questioning my writing ability and don't trust myself to proofread this without deleting the entire thing. I'll fix the spelling and grammatical errors later.

"…Talking…"  
"…Thinking…"  
"-…Communication Lines…-"

_Author's Edit:_ Fixed a few things. Grammar, spelling, the title.

* * *

**- - - Set in Motion - - -  
****Chapter 1**

* * *

"…_Sam…"_

"What do you mean?"

Mikaela raised one finely-shaped eyebrow; the picture of incredulity. "Sam, how is it _not_ weird making out in a sentient, alien car?"

Sam opened his mouth (ready to retort that they had once made out on Bumblebee's hood and could recall quite clearly that she had been the one to instigate it), but quickly snapped it shut. He hadn't given much thought to the matter… But, if Mikaela felt uncomfortable about it, then how did Bee feel?

"…_Sam…"_

"Honestly, I think you're _trying _to get yourself as dirty as possible." Sam huffed, carrying a large bucket full of washing supplies. Setting down the blue container, he put his hands on his hips and gave his car a once over. His Camaro's usually bright, yellow paint was now coated in a dried layer of mud and what could be seen was now dulled by a thin veil of dust kicked up while taking the back roads to the Autobot base. 'WASH ME' had been written lovingly across his back window by Mikaela, something Sam had refused to wipe off (much to Bumblebee's chagrin) on account of his car's every attempt to get as dirty as possible by the weekend. After all, he was the one who suffered the brunt of his father's anger when the monthly bills came in.

"Dirty, nasty, kinky, take me, I'm all yours_…"_

"Ugh, Bee, at least choose a different song." He whined, squeezing soap into the bucket as it filled with water. Once the bucket was full, he turned off the hose and attached the power nozzle. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bumblebee rock on his hinges. He was probably eager to remove the weeks grime from his body.

From what Ratchet had told him, it could sometimes be painful transforming with dirt or grime on their armor, as the dust often clogged their filters or shifted clods got stuck in uncomfortable places. It was still amazing to think that they weren't _just _machines. While not breathing, they were certainly living, and could feel pain just like any human.

It was also then that his friend had walked into the med bay, muck clinging to his armor, and Ratchet had fired off something in rapid Cybertronian, fingers twitching as if he was subconsciously looking for something to throw. (Bee had told him stories of The Hatchet's legendary temper.) Sam could still remember hugging his sides tightly, laughing despite himself as his sixteen foot tall robot guardian lowered his head and shuffled his feet, looking very much the part of a reprimanded child.

"…_Sam…"_

"-It's just for one night. Your dad can trust you to bring it back after one night, right?-"

"I don't know… I mean, he doesn't even let me walk across the lawn, I don't think he'd lend us his _car_..."

"-Oh come on, Sam! Just tell him that Bumblebee's got some 'official Autobot business' to attend to. He'll understand.-"

She had a point. And one night without his best bud there wouldn't kill him.

"…Alright. Saturday night, then?"

"-Yeah, I'll see you at six. 'Night, Sam. Love you.-"

"Love you, too, 'Keala."

"…_Sam…"_

"Bee?"

Then he woke up.

Warnings flashed in front of his eyes, signs he was used to seeing on a computer screen. Numbers, Letters, Percentages, all were familiar, yet at the same time foreign and threatening. To his left, massive figures moved in, large hands reached for him, metal that should have crushed him, held him gently, firmly to the cold slab of metal beneath him. They spoke, no, they shouted to one another, speech garbled and metallic as their hulking forms.

And then that familiar voice: "Ratchet! What's wrong with him?"

He glared past the bars and numbers while his body, encased in lead, struggled against his two captors. Three… three of them, surrounding him, crowding him…. He took in everything around him, but none of it mattered, he had to find that familiar figure, the one who always offered safety. Monitors, wires, red, black, cables, metal rafters, blue, yellow--Bee!

He broke free, slipping from their grasp. His body no longer felt weighed down, he leapt from the table and hit the ground. Metal rang loud in his ears, like someone had taken a metal bat to a large piece of sheet metal. He continued to run towards the familiar figure, toward to one who would keep him close and protect him.

He shouldn't have been able to understand, oh he shouldn't have been able to decipher their harsh tongue, but he did. He understood with crystal clarity and so did his guardian.

"Bumblebee! Grab him!"

Those large yellow hands that had cradled him close, protected him from danger, kept him safe; opened wide, ready to snatch him up the moment he was in reach.

His once-guardian lunged, fingers outstretched.

He ducked. He ducked and twisted in a way no human ever could.

And then he ran.

His once-guardian had been standing in front of a large door, one that wasn't as big or as tall as it had once been. He fled from the reaching hands, the probing fingers, ignored the voices calling to him, vainly calling back.

Tires screeched and buildings flew by. Lights were only a streak of bright color before they too faded behind him. People were only a blur of colorful clothing and noises. They talked, chatted, screamed, argued, aged, changed, continued on with their lives. Some stopped, they pointed at him, whispered to one another, but he ignored them. He had to get away. He had to keep running. They were behind him, following his trail, concealed among the innocent vehicles, hiding in plain sight of those they had sworn to protect.

Finally, it all fell behind them. He outran it all. Buildings turned into trees and the roads were silent.

The darkness that surrounded him was comforting. It was without noise, without form. It simply was. Slowly, it folded in on itself, quietly slipping over him like a blanket, tucking away his fears, covering his anxiety. His world went black.

* * *

**End Chapter**


	2. Chapter II

_**Disclaimer: **__What? Who's Michael Bay? Steven Spielberg? Hasbro? Never heard of 'em! -sounds of guns being cocked- Oh, you mean __that_ Michael Bay, Steven Spielberg, and Hasbro! Oh, yeah… they own Transformers, not me…

"…Talking…"  
"…Thinking…"  
"-…Communication Lines…-"

_Author's Edit:_ Came back and did some cleaning up. Nothin' major.

* * *

**- - - Set in Motion - - -  
****Chapter 2**

* * *

Bumblebee, for lack of a better word, was a wreck. Maybe, if the small bot's young ward wasn't missing; if they knew the location of the ever elusive and dangerous Decepticon Barricade; and if the government wasn't poking their organic noses--if they could honestly be called that--around and asking questions again, Ratchet would have found the play on words amusing. However, having to forcibly offline the scout _twice_ after dragging him back to the base for much needed recharge had put a damper on Ratchet's already dour sense of humor.

No sooner had Sam slipped through his grasp, Bumblebee had followed in hot pursuit. The smell of burnt rubber continued to linger in the entryway, clinging to the black scars that arched across the floor where a bright yellow Camaro had spun on wheel and given chase. That had been ten Earth hours ago. Four hours earlier, he'd had to overload the frantic bot's processor and put him into a forced stasis period. It had been easy--too easy: shut down motor skills, hook up a cable here, attach a small wire there… had he not spent as much time by the boy's side as he had prior to his awakening, he may have been able to continue his search. Instead, he now lay on the med berth, optics dim, silent and still.

"-Ratchet,-"

"-Ironhide,-" The medic acknowledged, turning away from the prone yellow form. He turned his attention to the monitors, watching the twin dots on the map move. One was currently combing up and down through the maze of lines that made up downtown Tranquility. The other dot moved along the highways just outside the city limits, blending in with the larger trucks that traveled those roads.

"-How's he doin'?-"

"-Better… Any sign of Sam?-"

He could almost hear the air leave Ironhide's vents over the com link; the equivalent of a human sigh. Slag it all! He should have foreseen the youth's panic and placed a tracker on the boy! One did not wake up in a new body and simply go about their business as per usual. And, without the aforementioned tracker or a verified signal, there was no way to pinpoint his currently location until he was physically found.

Ratchet brought his fingers up and pinched the bridge of his faceplates, a human behavioral habit he had picked up. "-I'll continue to monitor the screens and Bumblebee. He may be able to rejoin you soon enough.-"

"-I'm no tracker, that's Prowl's job, but even a toaster could've figured out he's been through here. Some of the humans are spooked. Been talkin' about a motorbike with no rider speeding around town.-" Ah yes, there had been reports and news broadcasts about a bike with no rider hurtling through Tranquility at dangerous speeds… It had been thought to be a practical joke of some sort at first--remote controlled, they justified--but after police had tried to chase it down, only to fall back after losing track of it after hours of chasing, outsmarted and outmaneuvered, gossip had taken a turn down the Twilight Zone. For the time being, 'ghost' sightings were their only lead. It had last been spotted zipping downtown and then shortly thereafter just outside the city limits.

"-Our objective is to find and secure Sam.-" Ratchet spoke, folding his arms behind his back as he continued to watch the display screens. "-The most we can hope for is that he doesn't run into… trouble.-" He had deactivated Sam's weapons system, for obvious safety reasons, but for a frantic Sam to run into a certain short-tempered cop with no means of self-defense…

"-Right. I'm going to sweep the southern district. Ironhide out.-"

Ratchet stood there, continuing to stare at the display monitors, blue optics unfocused and unseeing. Then, slowly, he silently walked over to the occupied berth. Carefully, he turned off the stabilizers and unplugged the cords attached to Bumblebee that were keeping him in stasis. In moments, the scout's systems would reactivate. Practiced ease made it easy for him to reach under the layers of armor and flip the small switch hidden underneath the dermal plating. There was a loud 'click', followed by a low buzz and the sound of machinery coming back online. Motor functions were now active.

* * *

- - - -

* * *

Daylight.

System recovery at seventy-three percent. Optics online, working at ninety-four percent capacity.

Bird calls… quail trailing in a neat line into the underbrush. Sparrows darted between tree branches, fluttering as they twittered back and forth between the tress. Exactly one hundred forty-seven trees surrounded his current location. Exactly twelve point seven feet away, one lay, alone, dying, bark rotten and decaying into the soft earth. Would he decay? Would he die? His system told him No. No, he would not. He would live for centuries… millennia. He would outlive everything in this forest. He would live as many as a hundred of their lifetimes put together and even then, his final deactivation point was undetermined.

System recovery at ninety-eight percent. Hydraulics: Online. Weapons: Temporarily Offline.

The first thing Sam was aware of was the lack of grogginess. Unlike the slow, painfully sluggish waking that greeted him every morning; he was instead fed a long stream of information, instantly aware of everything around him. Colors, smells, sounds, textures… all of it flooding his brain in a whirlwind of sensations. He coughed and his lungs felt heavy and thick in his chest, but his voice sounded rough and sharp, like the times he had talked into a revolving fan as a kid, impressed at the change and how much he sounded like a poor rendition of Darth Vader. It echoed back, deep and metallic. His body felt like lead as he pulled himself up from the ground, suddenly overcome with a feeling of vertigo, the flood of information increasing with every turn of his head. Sam stopped, frozen, trying to curb the sudden dizziness and the torrent slowed to a trickle of images and sounds.

A rabbit shot past him, ducking into the brush as quickly as it had left the safety of its hiding hole. Birds scattered, small wings beating desperately in order to lift it off the ground, its primaries dipped in sunshine yellow.

Yellow.

Bee.

"-Bee…-"

"-Sam?-" He started at the sudden answer, eyes looking for the source of the familiar voice, but had to stop for a moment, his world once again spinning around him. He vaguely remembered a similar feeling after getting off the Tilt-o-Whirl at the fair one year and could vividly remember what he said next. 'Oh god… I'm gonna hurl…'

"-Sam? Sam?!-" Distress seemed to lace his guardian's voice and said boy felt a shiver run down his spine at the evident worry in Bumblebee's voice. Since the return of his guardian's voice, Sam had never heard his friend sound so worried; borderline scared. It was scarily unsettling and he felt his stomach drop, feeling guilty for causing his friend to worry.

"-Hey, hey, hey… It's okay. I'm alright, Bee.-" 'I think," went unsaid. After all, his world wasn't done spinning like a merry-go-round hooked up to five zillion watts. Without moving, Sam took a moment to assess the information swirling around him, feeling like a canoe stuck in the middle of a whirlpool. He was in a forest, that much he could tell… a distance away from a small road. But which road? What forest? Where? Tranquility didn't have any forests like

this for miles.

"-Where are you Sam? I'll come get you.-" This time, Bumblebee's voice was steady, toned by years as a soldier.

Statistics… numbers… percentages… None of it offered any solution or answer as to where he was. "-I… I don't know, Bee.-"

Again, Bumblebee's voice was firm, but yielding to a much softer tone. "-Just stay where you are. I'll be there soon.-"

* * *

- - - -

* * *

Luck, that's what it was: pure unadulterated luck.

Ratchet had told him the news about Sam had spread fast. While he had been in "temporary stasis" as the medic had so gently put it, Ironhide and Optimus had been searching Tranquility, following the missing Sam through radio reports of a phantom motorcycle. He'd then set his radar to pick up any and all radio signals while his frequency filters strained to catch any information as to the whereabouts of Sam. It was common sense and logical thinking that he had done so. Instead, it had been sheer chance that Sam had accidentally accessed his emergency com link.

"-Bumblebee…-"

Narrowly missing colliding with the highway barrier, he swerved back into the outer lane, the blaring horns behind him informing him that their owners thought very little of his stunt. He ignored them and the shocked looks he received as he drove past, driver's seat empty, and sent a copy of Sam radio signature to Ratchet.

"-Sam?-" He probed; engine roaring as he blatantly ignored the posted speeds when no reply came.

While it may have been luck that Sam had made contact with him, he had used an emergency frequency. Anyone who could trace the signal could find Sam before he got to him.

Barricade fell under the Anyone category.

"-Sam? Sam?!-"

Ninety-four… Ninety-nine… One hundred six… The yellow Camaro wove between the cars around him as easily as if they had been sitting still. The needle of his speedometer continued to climb. One hundred thirteen… One hundred seventeen… Vaguely, he could hear Ratchet inform him Sam was located north of his current position and that Optimus and Ironhide were now en route to the attached coordinates.

"-Hey, hey, hey… it's okay. I'm alright, Bee.-"

One hundred two… Ninety-seven… The red needle slowly eased back into the double digits, though it continued to hover precariously in the nineties.

Calm. He was the guardian… He was supposed to keep cool in these types of situations. "-Where are you, Sam? I'll come get you.-"

A pause. "-I… I don't know, Bee.-"

A large truck pulled up beside him, its engine a deafening roar as its larger build fought against the wind and road, its blue and red paint glinting in the Nevada sunlight. The Peterbilt revved its engine, seeming to approve as his speedometer once again rose.

"-Just stay where you are. I'll be there soon.-"

* * *

- - - -

* * *

Ratchet sighed, sitting down on the closest berth. He ran one of his hands across the cold metal, fingers brushing against an old tarp that lay neatly folded in the center. It had served its purpose; it had hidden his shame from those who entered the med bay. What it could not do was fix the damage, it could not erase the memories of his saw blade at Ironhide's neck, nor the silent understanding on the black mech's face as he came to his senses. They all knew his secret, his anger, his ignominy, and his sadness. They understood, but said nothing, and, for that, he was grateful.

Jazz was gone.

Casualties are a part of war, an unfortunately common occurrence where there was little you could do except collect the pieces and move on. After all, these same pieces could save your spark, be it anything from a new appendage to a replacement energon line. One just had to ignore the fact that it had once belonged to a fallen comrade or even a deactivated Decepticon. Humans might have called it organ donation. Ratchet, however, was chillingly reminded of a fictional scientist by the name of Dr. Frankenstein.

While recycling parts had become a welcomed concept in the war after production plants had either been destroyed or shut down, Ratchet could never shake the uneasiness in his processors as he reattached a salvaged arm or leg that had come from the growing pile of bodies. He had failed to pull them from the edge of the Pit and yet, even after termination, they continued to fight. They had been placed in his care and they were his responsibility, many of them friends, and no matter how hard he tried to pull them from the brink of the Eternal Matrix, he could not save them all. He never let it show, he had too much pride for that, but every lost patient was a blow to his spark chamber. Yet he still tried to recreate what had been lost.

After the battle with the Decepticons in Mission City, he had spent days in the newly constructed med bay, reconnecting wires, replacing missing components, welding armor back together. Optimus, Ironhide, and Bumblebee had come to check on him, Ironhide the most frequent visitor, but he rarely left his work. When the visits stopped altogether, he suspected the specialist had taken guard at the door--a twenty-six foot tall 'Do Not Disturb' sign with two big guns and a trigger happy servo. So Ratchet continued to work. He continued to try.

On the third day, something happened.

Sam had stopped by, trying to help any way he could by doing what he did best: Talking. He asked questions in an attempt to distract Ratchet, trying to get anything out of the docbot other than a grunt or terse answer. In the end, he gave up and left, casting one last look at the broken second from where he stood next to Jazz's left leg. Ratchet had grunted a goodbye and continued to replace a delicate cluster of chips in Jazz's midsection. Then, a bright light caught his eye. A small spark had lit inside Jazz's spark chamber, a flicker of energy read out on the monitor and kindling a hope glimmer of hope in the medic's spark.

He forwent recharge, working furiously and ignoring the warnings that flashed at the corner of his vision. Energy reserves were now dipping dangerously low. He opened the silver chassis and hooked up two surge cables, hoping a jump would recreate that same spark.

With the pull of the lever, all the lights in the vicinity went out.

Ratchet didn't move, even his air intakes had fallen silent. The machinery that had been humming with rising energy was silent. Jazz didn't move.

When Ironhide enter the med bay calling to Ratchet and wondering what had caused the blackout, he was greeted by the sharp edges of Ratchet's medical saw blade.

Nobody questioned the newly repaired metal or the weld marks around Ironhide's neck.

After that, Ratchet moved Jazz's body onto another berth in the corner of the medical lab and, out of respect, covered him with a dusty brown tarp he had found. He no longer attempted to repair what had been broken. The hope that small spark had given him had died out, as had his anger when he came to realize what he had done.

Now, the berth he sat upon was empty, the body gone, the tarp folded nearly and ready for storage.

* * *

**End Chapter**


	3. Chapter III

**Disclaimer**: What? Who's Michael Bay? Steven Spielberg? Hasbro? Never heard of 'em! -sounds of guns being cocked- Ohhh… You mean _that _Michael Bay, Steven Spielberg, and Hasbro! Well… they own Transformers… not me…

_(3/20/08) Author's Edit_: Came back, tweaked a few things. Nothing major.

* * *

**- - - Set in Motion - - -**

**Chapter 3**

* * *

His world was spinning again.

Sam groaned, resisting the urge to crack his head open on the nearest rock (which was sitting exactly twenty-three point seventy-two feet away). He tried to remain as still as possible, leaning against the tree he had propped himself against and barely moving while he tried to slow the onslaught of information. However, that didn't mean the world around him would stop as well. No matter how small, he couldn't escape the slightest detail. Every breeze that sifted through the leaves of the trees brought with it a library of information. As it ghosted over him, he could tell which direction it had come from, its temperature, and how many miles it traveled within the hour. It carried with it the smell of damp earth and he knew it had rained up north, near the mountains. He could hear the sounds of every animal, from the padded steps of a prowling fox to the heartbeat of the mouse, unaware of the silent threat. From far away, he could hear the occasional car traveling along the back roads, their engines thrumming, whistling against the wind. He could smell the gasoline and almost taste the pollution excreted from their exhausts.

He closed his eyes, trying to block out the constant feedback. Only, the information changed from giving him a report of his surroundings to his own bodily functions--a majority of which he didn't understand in the slightest. A dull throbbing that had been insistently pounding away at his skull escalated to a sharp pain behind his eyes. Strangely, Sam felt like it was alive. It felt like it was constantly moving, running wild inside his head as it touched and explored. It radiated curiosity as it handled every thought and every memory he had, turning it over and studying it before it threw it aside like a child growing bored with its new toy, moving onto the next thing that caught its interest. When it reached a dead end, it charged right through, bashing its way through as easily as a relentless river behind an old dam. He pushed back, struggling to keep his dam steady.

It held.

Barely.

Sam opened his eyes again and the world snapped back to him with an audible "CRACK" of clarity. He knew the tree he was leaning against was exactly eighty-four years old, three feet three inches wide, and twenty-one feet tall. He knew how many different kinds of shrubbery and plant life made up the forest around him. He knew exactly where a fox had buried the spoils of its latest kill and how deep it was buried. He knew in approximately fourteen minutes, two blue jays that had found a home in a seventeen year old pine would soon be tending to the hungry mouths of four healthy chicks. Hell, he could count the number of pine needles in every God-forsaken pine tree. Silently, he promised a horrible, long, drawn-out death to the gray squirrel that clambered down the side of a thirty-three foot tall evergreen, dug up its winter stash of acorns and pine nuts beneath five month old pine needles and leaves, then scurried back up its tree to the little burrow located fifteen feet from the ground, blissfully unaware of Sam's threat.

All of this and he sill had no idea _where _he was.

Mind you, he knew _what_ he was.

Oh, it didn't take a genius to figure out he was no longer in his own body. Constant feedback about said body had told him that much and he could put two and two together on his own quite well, thank you very much. That, and he was pretty close to sure this wasn't a common human trait--unless it was some form of puberty Health class hadn't thought to cover. He could already hear the overly-enthusiastic announcer from the many black and white educational videos they had watched on the ancient film projector... "So, you're receiving information about your body and parts you never knew you had? Congratulations! You've officially become an adult or clinically insane!"

Wonderful.

Yet none of this information could tell him how he had become an Autobot. He'd already tried to recall what had happened before, but his headache had gone from a dull aching, to a stabbing pain behind his eyes, and then a sudden white light. He hadn't tried again since waking up on the forest floor, the sun already beginning its westbound descent.

Just as the thought of picking up a nearby rock (the very same he'd thought of using on his own cranium) and chucking it at the energetic squirrel (who was still busy unearthing his winter harvest), consequences be damned, an unexpected spike of information froze all thought.

He would know the sound of Bee's engine anywhere.

They moved with surprising grace in their bulky forms, traveling as a single unit with such agility it would have put a team of Hollywood stunt drivers to shame. They then jumped off the road and continued over the bumpy terrain as smoothly as if it were asphalt. Drawing closer, engines rumbling, they paused only when he forest became too thick for them to move in. Then, they rose, unfurling out of their deceitful forms like a butterfly's wings. Not as graceful, nor as beautiful, but certainly something otherworldly.

He had no idea whether Autobots needed to breath or not (the thought had honestly never crossed his mind…), but Sam felt all the air rush from his body like he had taken a powerful swing to the gut. Vaguely, he felt the 'thing' move again, dropping whatever it had found and turning its attention on him. Sam didn't move, his body as weightless as it had been in Mission City, falling from the cathedral, the All Spark clutched tightly to his chest as Megatron swung, missing him by mere inches as the statue plummeted to the streets below, taking him with it.

Optimus was there. Metal twisted and turned, creaked, clicked, and whirred. It all fit together like an intricate master piece, made of alien metal and his favorite childhood colors. The ground shook and moaned underfoot, untouched by even human feet. The branches crackled around them, some snapping with a loud "CRACK" as they gave way to the strain of behind bent at an angle. Large feet stepped between the trees, followed by another pair. Ironhide was less careful, his black bulk brushing against every branch and pushing away what got in his way with less care than his leader. He was grumbling something about leaves and twigs in unkind places. Bumblebee followed closely behind, moving between the trees much more easily, shifting with the practiced ease of the scout he was between the branches.

When they reached him in the small clearing they stopped, though Bumblebee seemed to brim with worry as his optics watched Sam. Despite still adjusting to Autobot facial expressions and alien body lingo, Sam could tell his guardian was tired. His door wings seem to droop a little lower, as did his shoulders, like his armor was suddenly much too heavy. His optics, while they still glowed their brilliant blue, flickered occasionally, as if struggling to keep his optics focused. Behind it all, however, there was firm determination. He would not give up. No matter what.

He really had worried Bee… Guilt washed over his relief and he found himself angry at himself for causing Bumblebee to worry.

"Sam?"

He had relaxed, if only for a moment, but it was enough. Somehow, he had tuned out the flow of information. He had been focusing on Bee for so long his mind had stopped trying to process anything else. Broken out of its stupor, however, his mind seemed to flick back on with the turn of a switch.

Everything rushed back.

The dam held… then cracked.

And all hell broke loose.

Sights, smells, textures, sounds, colors, temperatures… all of it jumbled together into one writhing mass of… everything. There was no way to explain it. It overwhelmed him. He could sense everything in perfect clarity.

It was as if he had taken a picture with a high tech camera and then looked at the film. Somehow, he noticed all the detail he hadn't looked at while standing there. The camera had brought his attention to everything around him. He saw every shift of movement before it joined the mass of sensations. He could feel every texture, the tree, the earth, the rocks, the leaves, even the caress of a stray breeze. The smells of earth were overpowering… living, breathing, dying… and the sounds. Oh god, the sounds sounds sounds sounds! Everything. Like paint, it ran together, shifting, morphing into one amorphous mass of sensations. He was scared. He didn't want to become a part of it. He was Sam. He was his own person. He was Sam!

The white light was back, along with a loud ringing in his ears, but this time, he didn't black out. No, there was no mercy as his mind tried to keep up, overtaxing itself as he strained to keep up with the onslaught. It failed and tried again. It failed and then tried once more. Again and again, failing, crashing, falling. It simply couldn't keep up.

A shriek, his own, tore itself from his voice box and the forms around him stepped back. Their shock was palpable in the shifting air. They spoke to one another, whether aloud or through his own head, he wasn't sure. It all jumbled together, whirling around him like a storm. Somehow, through it all, he could hear his guardian…

"What's happening to him! Optimus?"

"Calm down… nothing we… do……"

'Stop.'

"-Ratchet, report.-"

"-I don't… his system is…… data………fluctuating………can't handle……overload.-"

'Stop it… Shut up.'

"-How can we stop it?-"

"-…working on it…… override…………shutdown…-" Fingers were prodding at his brain, poking around like his headache had. Only these were much more careful, moving over some things and only touching certain parts of his brain.

'Stop it!'

_MANUAL OVERRIDE COMPLETE_

_INITIALIZING STASIS SHUTDOWN_

Fatigue suddenly washed over him and Sam found his panic grind to a screeching halt. It was as if someone had simply turned it off, like turning the valve of a water facet. It trickled out of him, like rushing water turning into a small stream, thinning as it continued to drain. The world around him seemed to slow down and his brain slumped in relief. He no longer felt like he was in his own body, but at the same time, knew he was in it. He could liken it to his times at the dentist when they had given him a gas that had made him sleepy and sluggish. Everything had faded out, and what he could see was covered in a haze of pink. Was he back in the dentists? Had he eaten too much junk food while staying up at Miles's house again?

':W-w-what wrong with you:'

'Hmm?'

':D-d-danger.:'

_SYSTEM OVERRIDE_

He was about to ask who he was talking to (or at least tell Miles he had a speech impediment) when he was abruptly yanked out of the pink clouds surrounding him and thrust back into his body. The world around him swung back into view, tilting ever so slightly before righting itself. The movement around him didn't stop. No, it was a constant variable, ever changing.

Yet… something was different.

"He's back online?"

"I thought you said Ratchet shut him down manually?"

His weapons were offline, his arm cannon disabled. Only one thing had been overlooked.

"Are you alright, Sam?"

His optics swiveled to land on the yellow figure standing a ways in front of him. As his optics met the other's, the yellow one started forward slowly, as if afraid he would bolt at the tinniest sudden movement.

"Sam?"

How foolish.

* * *

- - - -

* * *

To say Bumblebee was shocked, would be the understatement of the millennia.

One moment, Sam had been sitting still, optics dim and not even transmitting so much as a signal. (Bumblebee had feared Ratchet's emergency manual override had been too much for his processor to handle and may have permanently offlined the boy.) The next, bright blue optics flickered online to stare back at him.

He had approached, cautious that Sam might run again.

Then, the huddled form had brandished a set of blades on each forearm and lunged with such a ferocity that Frenzy would have been proud of.

Despite Sam's size now being a little less that three quarters to his own, he was still very much surprised when the much smaller mech had tackled him, sending them both toppling to the ground with an earth-shaking thud and loud crunch of metal.

Then pain.

It was minimal, compared to what it could have been. It was the fact that the 'could have been' had only been three inches from losing his right arm. The three metal spikes connected to Sam's forearm had slipped under his armor, disappearing beneath the metal and coming dangerously close to a vital energon line underneath his shoulder joint. It had, luckily, only slid across the under armor, missing the line and grazing across metal before lodging itself in a crevice of his armor.

With a heave, he rolled to the left, grabbing Sam and throwing him a ways, lest he crush the smaller. The bot seemed to anticipate this, however, and coiled in on himself in the air, contorting into a ball of twisted metal. He then landed on double-jointed legs, feet connecting with the earth and causing him to backslide across the rough ground until sharp-taloned feet caught in the dirt. One arm came down to steady himself, causing the blue mech to look very much the part of an aggressive linebacker as he charged one again, blades swinging, gaze set solely on Bumblebee.

So intent on his target, he noticed the large sweeping hand too late. While it may have only meant to deter him, the bot was once again airborne for a second time, his landing lacking the same grace as before when the back of his foot caught on a stray tree root. For a moment, his arms spun, long limbs pin-wheeling in a comical attempt to regain his his balance, before gravity took its hold and yanked him back into a bush.

Bumblebee stood, watching the bush warily. "What the Pit was that?"

Optimus seemed to think along the same lines. It had been his hand that had knocked Sam into the bush, and he stood slowly, turning to look at Ironhide who already had both cannons at ready. "-Ratchet?-"

"-I saw, Optimus.-" The medic's voice was grim, hard-set as he likely watched through Ironhide's optics. "-However, I can't diagnose the problem from here. Bring him back to the base.-"

Ironhide scoffed, bringing one cannon up to bear when the bush began to rustle with movement. "-With the kid on the fritz like that? Why not just shut him down like you were supposed to?-"

The were a distinct icy air over the communication line, anger flaring briefly before it cooled to a dangerously calm tone. "-I just did that. What you're looking at it the repercussion.-"

This seemed to throw the weapon's specialist and one large gun tilted slightly. "-You're telling me the kid's already in stasis?-" He shook his head, disbelief in his tone. In human terms, the kid was sleep walking!

"-According to his signature readings: yes.-"

"-Then how is Sam still mobile?-" Bumblebee interjected, worry once again seeping into his voice.

He didn't get an answer, however, as the bush parted to reveal a set of glaring optics. The small bot swiveled his head suddenly, blue optics narrowing as the whine of a charging cannon met his audio receptors. His gaze landed on Ironhide, who had trained one very large cannon on a much smaller mech.

He sneered, "Don't move, punk."

Sam seemed to consider his options, glancing at Bumblebee, to Optimus, and finally to the black mech and the large gun pointed at him.

Then promptly fell to the ground, unmoving.

For a moment, there was silence. The forest around them was quiet. The only sound was the constant hum of machinery from the three large figures.

Ironhide let his canon slide back into its hiding place and cocked his head.

"Well... That's the first time they've ever listened."

* * *

**End Chapter**


	4. Chapter IV

_**Disclaimer**__: What? Who's Michael Bay? Steven Spielberg? Hasbro? Never heard of 'em! -sounds of guns being cocked- Ohhh… You mean __that _Michael Bay, Steven Spielberg, and Hasbro! Yeah… _they _own Transformers… not me… I do own a little mini Jazz figurine now, though… He's so cute.

"…Talk…"

'…Thoughts…'

"-…Communication Lines…-"

* * *

**- - - Set in Motion - - -**

**Chapter 4**

* * *

Maggie sighed, swiveling in her chair and nursing a hot cup of coffee in her lap. It was only eight twenty in the morning and it was already shaping up to yet another day of staring mindlessly at the monitors. Honestly, one would think she would be on her feet a little more as the appointed personal advisor and data analyst of the Secretary of Defense! But nooooo, here she sat in her little swivel chair, in her little cubicle comprised of computers, wires, and keyboards, glaring at little monitors that never _ever _changed.

She sunk lower in her chair, grudgingly taking a sip of her coffee and jumping when some of the hot liquid sloshed over the rim, landing on her t-shirt. 'Oh yes, very professional,' she thought, angrily rubbing at the ugly brown stain with a napkin. After the first week she had given up trying to look professional. While everyone else wandered the Pentagon looking like they had somewhere to be in their important suits and ties, she only roamed the halls on her way to and from the work room, out of place and looking very much like a groggy-eyed college student in her slacks and old college jersey, her hair done up in a messy bun with whatever writing utensil that had been handy while she poured herself a cup of joe. Keller had stopped by once (just to see how she was settling into the new 'office', yes, fine, thanks for asking), raising a brow at her attire, but saying nothing on the matter. He either understood or had seen such a thing before. Hackers and data analysts weren't exactly known for their fashion sense, after all...

Taking another sip from the Styrofoam cup, she pushed herself away from her desk and rolled lazily across the cleanly polished floor. She then twisted her foot to the side and shoved herself toward the opposite side of the room; toward the small corner Glen had so lovingly dubbed his 'Cubicle of Zen and Peace.' (He had, at first, compared the room to the one they had crowded in back at Hoover Dam, and, although smaller, this one was considerably cleaner; it's equipment more up to date; and free of volatile, genocidal, alien hackers. Glen immediately liked it.)

She eyed the many Crispy Cream boxes littered across the floor, some hiding underneath the display tables. Pop cans lay strewn everywhere, empty, half-finished, and some yet to be even opened. All of this topped off by the various action figures Glen had brought from his grandmother's house. A personal touch, of sorts.

Nearly squashing a GI Joe doll, she navigated around the mess, stopping and raising a brow at her partner.

'Some of the world's most advanced technology is in his lap and he uses it to play _World of Warcraft_?' Maggie pursed her lips, a lecture about the proper use of said advanced equipment already building on the tip of her tongue, when a flashing light to her left caught her eye. (She almost didn't notice it behind the model of some Japanese robot.)

"No… way…" She said, turning toward the display. It was barely over a whisper, but Glen had somehow heard it, twisting in his seat while he frantically closed down the game.

"U-Uh, listen, Mags, I'm sorry! I just couldn't--" He stopped, and for the first time seemed to notice the light and the awestruck look on the blonde's face. Knocking over a stack of empty boxes, he stumbled over to where Maggie stood, his mouth agape. Pale blue lit both their faces as they leaned down, transfixed by the flashing light that was, in fact, _several _flashing lights. All of which quickly approaching the Earth's atmosphere.

* * *

-+-+-+-

* * *

Getting Sam back to the base had not been, as the boy himself would have called it, 'fun.'

After confirming that the boy was not going to leap at them once again, Bumblebee had gently gathered Sam in his hands and laid him in the bed of Ironhide's alt mode--as he was now too big to fit in any of their interiors--while Optimus stripped some of nearby trees of their branches. Together, they placed them protectively over the unconscious bot to conceal him from prying eyes.

Then came the long trek home.

It was nearly evening by the time they reached the outskirts of Tranquility. Having to avoid roads that led into cities as an extra precaution had taken more time than originally thought (coupled with the fact that driving too fast would attract the attention of the local law enforcement while the wind threatened to blow away Sam's cover). The edges of the sky had just begun to turn a delicate shade of pink when they finally reached the base, where Ratchet met them at the large airbase doors.

"These slagging twigs are gonna itch like the Pit…" Ironhide grumbled as Ratchet carefully peeled away the last branch. With as much care as possible, Ratchet reached down into the truck bed and carefully lifted the smaller bot onto one of the examination tables.

Bumblebee, who had been hovering anxiously while trying at the same time to stay out of the way—one simply did _not_ get in Ratchet's way when he had a patient to care for. Not if you wanted the nearest medical instrument lobbed at your cranium for your concern—stepped forward, his door wings twitching nervously. "Is he going to be alright, Ratchet?"

For a moment, the CMO didn't answer, deftly pressing against the side of the blue armor plating and coaxing out a long cord which he hooked up to one of the humming machines around them. There was silence as he went from monitor to monitor, going through the motions of scanning and checking, adjusting, then scanning and checking again. The only other sound came from the shifting GMC Topkick as it transformed into twenty-six feet of weapon specialist.

"Sam will be alright… I suspect his body merely slipped into defense protocols." Ratchet said; his optics focused on the screen he was studying. "Memory scans show that his senses overloaded… his human half wasn't ready to handle that much information at once." He then turned to Bumblebee, "He'll be fine once I install a few firewalls and adjust his sensory settings. It's just something he'll have to learn to control."

If he had been capable of it, Bumblebee would have smiled. Instead, he reached down and stroked one finger down the side of Sam's faceplates. How different it was... No longer a round face capable of many expressions, Sam's features were now much sharper, accented by twisted chrome and midnight-blue metal where the armor of his alt mode reached

Beautiful.

Mechanic of organic, he didn't care; he loved Sam and Primus had given him a gift; a chance to be with Sam forever.

Bumblebee stopped, finger resting on the visor that hid Sam's optics from him. It was long, shaped like a curved 'V' almost, tinted an almost clear blue, and greatly resembled the one Jazz had once worn.

For the first time since all of this had started, the scout wondered if they had done the right thing…

"Installing the new walls will take a few hours." Ratchet said, shooting the Camaro a knowing look. "Go. Get in some recharge. I'll alert you before I bring him online."

For a moment, Ratchet thought the scout would refuse, opting to stay with his charge, but, slowly, he pulled his hand away. He turned trusting blue optics on the medic, and nodded once, silently, and left, the doors hissing shut behind him. The three remaining older mechs watched him go.

"There's something you're not telling us."

Air cycled loudly through his vents and Ratchet turned back to regard Optimus, his expression jaded. "During my scans, I found something… unusual. Regular defense protocols shut down the body and put it in an energy reserving state. I've never seen, nor heard, of a body acting such as Sam's did. While his mind may have been offline, his body was acting with conscious influence."

"Couldn't it be the human part of his mind?" Ironhide said. He crossed his massive arms over his chest plate, shifting from one foot to the next. "You said yourself that the kid's mind is still part human."

"I doubt it." Ratchet snorted. The medic then turned toward one of the monitors, where two frequencies were shown. "This:" He pointed to the top frequency, a thin line that moved erratically in small convulsive twitches, occasionally giving larger 'jumps.' "…is Sam's current brainwave pattern. This:" He moved his finger to the bottom one, a line that moved so fast and sporadically it was a near blur, even to their advanced optics. "…is the frequency I picked up _after _I entered the manual override code. It shouldbe the same as the top one; docile."

"Will this affect Sam's psyche in anyway?" Optimus asked.

"I don't know. I tried checking his consciousness for any irregularities, but I can only access some of it, most of his core processor data still perceives itself as human and is encrypted. All we can do now is keep a close optic on him for any changes."

Ironhide snorted, as if to say, 'Just where have you been, doc?'

Ratchet shot him a look, but turned to address Optimus. "Also, the American government has been trying to contact us. Constantly. They've been asking about information about 'The Newest Autobot' nonstop. I replied that we would inform them once we had him in custody. It seems they have no idea it's Sam."

"And they do not need to know." Optimus replied sharply, eyeing both of the two bots seriously. "Perhaps later, when Sam has adjusted to his new life, but for the time being they are on a need to know basis. We will provide a designation. That is all."

"Well, we can't very well call him 'Sam' or 'Witwicky,' now can we?"

"Spike."

Both Ratchet and Optimus Prime turned toward Ironhide. He looked back at them evenly.

"The runt's got 'em." He held up his own arm, tapping the metal on his forearm to indicate where the aforementioned weapon had been concealed. "An' I don't think 'Porcupine' will sit well…"

* * *

-+-+-+-

* * *

_Metal was twisted around him, slowly slithering underneath his skin. He could smell blood as well as taste its heavy, bitter copper-taste in his mouth. His skin felt numb and heavy, his body slowly withdrawing into itself, curling in. He couldn't breathe._

"…_Sam…"_

"Sam?"

Sam blinked, staring up at the two large faces hovering over him.

"Bee?"

He made to sit up, curling one arm underneath and swinging one leg over the side of the surface he sat upon, only...

"I can't move."

"Of course you can't." Ratchet snorted, moving out of his line of sight. His voice drifted from somewhere over to his right. "I've shut down nearly all of your motor functions, although I believe removing your legs would have been more efficient." The medic grumbled. Sam wasn't sure if he would have shifted uncomfortably had he been capable of it or frozen on the spot to prove leg-removage was unnecessary.

"Quit scarin' the kid." Sam recognized the gruff voice of Ironhide.

"I am merely exercising what humans call 'tough love.'" The medic stated matter-of-factly, reappearing to bend over him. He heard a loud hiss, like the noise doors in spaceships in sci-fi movies make whenever they open or close, and then felt something gently prod at his chest.

"I believe that was sarcasm, Ratchet." Bumblebee corrected, watching the larger yellow bot turn Sam's mobile functions back on. "Can you move now, Sam?"

Sam sat up, legs swung over the side of the berth. "Yup." He stopped and blinked, seeming to take in his new appearance for the first time.

No longer was he the awkward boy he had once been. In his place sat a rather lanky mech that stood at nearly ten feet. While his body was rather slender, covered with dark blue paint and what looked like a pane of thick glass, his shoulders were wide, the metal stretching out into twin armor spikes. His long arms nearly reached his knee caps, fingertips just meeting the top. His legs, double-jointed, curved back and ended in a four-toed foot, one curled behind for a means of balance.

For a moment, Bumblebee predicted Sam to panic once again, to throw himself from the berth much like he had before, and take off, disgusted with his new body.

But, with what Bumblebee could interpret as a wide grin, he turned to regard his guardian with a cocked head and said, "Well, I guess it's gonna take some getting used to."

* * *

-+-+-+-

* * *

This… was bad.

He was entering the atmosphere too fast. The metal of his protective casing had already overheated and his internal system temperatures were steadily climbing to dangerous levels.

'Slaggin' Decepticreeps.' He thought. They had taken them by surprise, intercepting his unit as they passed Earth's moon. They had to break formation and he long since lost track of the others. It was so like the Decepticons to divide and conquer, the cowards!

And what was worse… he was injured and had one of the Pit-spawned Seekers on his tail.

The mech cursed. He couldn't risk accessing communication frequencies with a Decepticon so near, lest he draw more of them to his location. What was more, this planet had so many fragging satellite drones! Primus knows if they hadn't already attracted the inhabitants attention!

"-What's the matter, Autobot? Too scared to face me?-" The seeker cackled. He obviously had the advantage, built to fly through the sky with incredible speed and agility, his sleek armor tinted shades of grays.

The mech snorted dismissively, belying his mounting alarm as critical warnings began to flash across his vision. "-Too scared to look at your ugly-aft face, you mean!-" Okay, screw communication lines. He was fragged and he knew it. Although maybe one of those satellites would come in handy and crash into his pursuer.

His luck, however, seemed to take a different turn, and, as he continued to hurtle down towards the blue planet, the large transformer on his tail let out a low curse and pulled back. It was then that he realized that even as big and as flight-worthy the other mech might be, entering a planet's atmosphere when not in a space travel pod was both dangerous and potentially fatal, no matter what your build was. Armor and metal not tucked away could possibly melt in the heat of the thermosphere or be blown off by the sheer force of entering a planets troposphere. The seeker seemed to realize as his wings began to take on a glowing orange hue.

"-We'll meet again, Autobot!-" The seeker then banked to the left, spun around, and, with a burst of speed, fled back into the black recesses of space.

"-You can count on it, Starscream.-"

* * *

**End Chapter**


End file.
